Jo Clayton - Drinker of Souls

“You’re not doing so bad, Saiir.” He smiled. “And you knew enough to come here instead of Grannsha.”

“Ignorance is not the same as stupidity, shipmaster.”

“And you want to go to Utar-Selt. Slipping in the back door.”

“I have to be careful, I’m all there is.”

“It’s not very likely you can do anything but get yourself killed.”

She shook her head, looked stubborn. “I’ve taught

Temuengs here they aren’t masters of the world,”

“You have that. How do you keep from being caught?

Can’t be two women on this island look like you.” I know a trick or two. How much will this cost?”

He rubbed a hand across his chin. “Fifty gold for passage, you and the children. In advance.”

“Done.” The urchin grin again; it charmed him but not enough for him to reduce the price though he was rather disappointed that she hadn’t bothered to haggle. “It’ll take a few days to steal that much.”

He raised his brows.

“Temueng strongboxes,” she said defiantly. “They owe me, more than they could ever pay though I beggared the lot of them. And don’t worry, Shipmaster, I won’t get caught or tangle you in Temueng nets. Now, the rest of it. What papers do you need? What signatures, what seals, who do you have to bribe, how much gold will it take and how soon do you need it?”

FOUR DAYS LATER. Tavisteen gone quiet. No more dead.

No alarums out for an impudent thief, though he listened for them and had his crew listening when they weren’t getting the Girl ready to sail.

The room up under the roof. Late afternoon light streaming in, heavy with dust motes, a salt breeze blowing hot and hard through the windows, tugging at the papers Brann dropped on the table.

“Look them over, Shipmaster. I think they’re right, but you’ll know better than I if they’ll pass.”

THAT HE COULD read a number of scripts was one of the several reasons the children had for choosing him; they’d walked his mind in dream, learning the language of his islands, learning much of what he knew about the ports he visited and more about his character. He was a man of strong loyalties who kept his crew together, cared for them, gave them money to live on though that meant his limited resources vanished more quickly, a man whose love for his ship was as fierce as her love for her folk and fire-hearted Tincreal, a man of many gifts who could read water, air, sky and landshapes as if they were words scribed in a book, hard when he needed to be hard, with a center of tenderness he let very few see, a brown, square man with a large-featured square face. Sitting by the window with the sun giving a sweat sheen to his tight-gained skin, he was a creature of living stone, a sea-god carved from red-brown jasper with eyes of polished topaz. He affected her in ways she didn’t understand, did things to that adult body she’d so suddenly acquired that she didn’t want to understand; this terrified her, even sickened her because she could not forget no matter how she tried the Temueng Censor grunting on top of her, reaming into her; she dreamed that time again and again, the children having to wake her because her cries might betray that night’s hiding place. She watched the man and wanted him to touch her, her breasts felt sore and tight, there was a burning sweetness between her thighs. She forced her mind away from her intrusive body and tried to concentrate on the papers and what the man would say of them.

SA MANG FELT HER restlessness, looked up. “Where are the children?”

“Around. Never mind them. How soon can we leave?”

He shook his head. “You are an innocent. Wait a minute.” He began going through the papers again, holding them up to the light, wondering by what magic she’d come up with them. Not a flaw in them, at least none he could find. When he was finished, he squared the pile, flattened a hand on it. “How much noise did you make getting these?”

“None. The Temuengs who signed and stamped them were, well, call it sleepwalking. They won’t remember anything of what happened.”

“Handy little trick. Mmmh.” He tapped his forefinger on the pile of paper. “Can’t go anywhere without these, but it’s only a start, O disturber of Temueng peace and mine; even with gold to ease their suspicions, well have to be careful to touch the right men and move fast before the wrong men start talking to each other.”

“How much gold?” Without waiting for an answer, she leaned out the window, brought back a heavy bag, which she set on the table in front of him. Before he could say anything, she had twisted away. She brought in a second bag, dumped it, and was out again, pulling in a third. With quick nervous movements, she went away from him to sit on the bed; today she seemed very aware of him as a man. Her response woke his own, he eyed her with interest, wondering what bedding a witch would be like. She looked hastily away. Skittish creature. Well, Sammo, that’s for later.

He unwound the wire from the neck of the first bag, began setting out the coins, brows raising as he broached the other bags and the piles multiplied, ten each, in rows of ten, ten rows of ten, a thousand gold, a full thousand heavy hexagonals, soft enough to mark with his thumbnail. Even without weighing and trying them, he was sure they weren’t mixed with base metal, something you had to watch for here in Tavisteen the tricky. When he finished he sat frowning at the mellow gold glimmer. And I thought to discourage her by asking a ridiculous price for her passage. He looked up. “This much high assay gold will be missed.”

She shook her head. “Not soon; these are from the Tekora’s private stash, dust and cobwebs over the lockboxes.”

With a laugh and a shake of his head he began putting the coins back in the sacks. “You wouldn’t consider signing on with me as bursar? I do like the idea of paying off the Tekora’s men with the Tekora’s gold.” He set two of the sacks on the paper pile, held out the third. “Here. You hang onto this, you might need it.”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t want it. When can we leave?”

He dropped the sack on the table, frowned. “Tide’s right round mid-morning tomorrow, but I’d rather put off leaving another day, have to provision the Girl, top off the water barrels. Don’t want to look hurried either, set noses twitching.” He drummed, his fingers on the table top, lips moving as he conned the tides. “Why not midday three days on?”

She blooded a moment, nodded.

“Can you and the children get on board without anyone seeing you?” When she laughed at that, he went on, “A Temueng pilot will be coming along. He’s to get us past the forts and fireships, good enough, but he’ll stick his nose into every corner before he lets us leave. Can you handle that?”

“I think so. You can really be ready to sail that quickly?”

“I could sail yesterday.” His voice was angry, violent. “If it weren’t for those lapalaulau-cursed sharks.”

She slid off the bed, started for the door, turned back. “I forgot to ask. How long from here to Utar-Selt?”

“Say we get good winds and we aren’t jumped, ten, twelve days. The Girl’s a clever flyer.”

“That long…”

“You want a shorter route, it’s only five days to the mouth of the Garrunt, but don’t ask me to take the Girl anywhere near the Fens.”

“Which I understand are a maze of mud and stink and hostile swampfolk. No thanks. The Marish was bad enough. Seems to me the long way round is the shortest route, all things considered.”

He got up and walked over to her, touched the side of her face, dropped his hand on her shoulder. “Need you go right now?”